


Keep The Lines Open

by sapphire_child



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Old Age, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7973572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_child/pseuds/sapphire_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is trying to keep the phone lines open. Castiel is trying to keep Dean alive. The Bunker has never seemed so vast, and the Empty beckons.</p><p>This is a story about growing old, of things unsaid, and the lengths people go to for the ones they love. It's also a story about coffee, and hunters, making waffles and growing a garden - but not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The whole thing is written so I'm hoping to post a chapter every couple of days. Keep an eye out and please subscribe so you don't miss out on the rest!

It’s the dozenth time in as many days that Castiel has found Dean like this.

He’s asleep in his favorite chair – glasses sitting crookedly on his craggy face. Deep lines crease the corners of his mouth. His eyes. They crisscross his forehead. His skin has softened with age, loosening over the rangy sinews of his neck. They stand out in sharp relief from where his head is thrown back. He grunts in his sleep, grating snores that fill the room.

The phones are arranged in front of him on a charging mat, a tablet or two thrown into the mix for good measure. It’s the one thing he can still do – man the phones. At least that’s what he insists. He’s got to be the oldest hunter in the continental US by now. Maybe even the world. With all the things he’s seen and done, he’s become the go-to man for every aspiring ghost hunter and vampire decapitator out there.

The world may have changed but not much is different in the world of monsters – of heaven and hell and all of the various spaces and realms between. And Dean, having somehow scraped his way into old age, is still fighting them any way he can.

Castiel reaches gently to remove the spectacles from Dean’s face, folds them neatly and places them within arm’s reach on the table. Idly, he leans in to check one of the many screens and Dean twitches in his sleep. Castiel pauses, sheer instinct. His reflexes might be slower now, but Dean Winchester is still not a man to surprise out of a nap.

“Sam…” he mumbles and Cas makes an abortive gesture, stopping just short of touching. But then Dean calls out again in his sleep, a little louder, “Sam!”

Dean jolts awake at the sure grasp of Cas’ hand on his shoulder. Castiel makes sure to speak loud and clear as he gives him a gentle shake into complete wakefulness.

“Dean.”

He takes a moment to blink awake, groans at the pain in his neck and smacks his lips against the cottony feeling in his mouth.

“You fell asleep in your chair again,” Castiel informs him, and it’s meant to be chiding but mostly it just comes out fond.

“Yeah well,” Dean grumbles, rubbing at his eyes before blearily fumbling for the nearest phone. “Somebody’s gotta keep the lines open.” He paws clumsily at the screen, grumbling as news pages flash past in a blur of color too fast for him to keep track. “Damn gesture wave…touch whatever…freaking…dammit!”

Once he’s finished grumbling, Castiel speaks.

“You were calling out in your sleep again.”

“Was I?” Dean only looks mildly interested, squinting mutinously down at the phone for a long moment before giving up and patting about for his glasses. Castiel already has them in hand, offers them silently, and Dean makes a noise of thanks as he accepts them.

“The same dream?”

“Always the same.” Dean mutters. He appraises the screen briefly before tossing the phone back onto the charging mat. “Nothin’.” He peels his glasses away so he can rub at his eyes again, sighing.

“You look exhausted,” Castiel says pointedly. He hovers by the edge of the table, his scrutinizing gaze quickly making Dean grouse.

“Thanks mom,” he mocks, lifting his eyes to meet Cas. They are dull with exhaustion but they pick up a bit of life as he teases him. “Meanwhile you look like a goddamn _Gap_ model. Seriously man, what’s your secret?”

It’s an old, long standing joke between them and Castiel responds as expected. He shrugs and quips, “I moisturize.” And Dean bellows with laughter but he tires himself out within seconds. Castiel puts a hand to his shoulder as his chuckles falter into weary silence. “You should sleep Dean. Properly. In a bed.”

With renewed grumbling, Dean clambers to his feet, sways a little and claps Cas on the shoulder to hide it.

“Fine,” he rumbles his assent. “You okay to man the phones for a bit?”

“Of course.”

Dean grips his shoulder in thanks, and to keep from swaying. Once he’s solid on his feet, he shuffles slowly towards his room and Castiel is left alone with the phones.

 

 

_“Dean.”_

_“Hey Cas. What’s that face for?”_

_“It’s very late. Even for you.”_

_“Sure is. So late it’s early.”_

_“You aren’t sleeping well?”_

_“Yeah. The usual nightmares. M’not used to having this many people around either. Noise cancelling headphones only do so much, y’know? Every time I hear footsteps that aren’t you or Sammy I think somebody’s trying to break in and kill me.”_

_“I’m sure they’ll be finished with their research soon and then they’ll leave.”_

_“Yeah. Yeah. You know, it hasn’t been that bad really.”_

_“Having other hunters here?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Even though they have interrupted your sleep?”_

_“Yeah but I never sleep anyway. Not much to interrupt. What’re you staring at?”_

_“I thought that you didn’t like having them here.”_

_“Why would you think that?”_

_“You have been very…grumpy.”_

_“Wow man, tell me what you really think. Ehhh. It’s not been too bad I guess. Just annoying when they use all the hot water or mess with my stuff. Sammy and me – we’ve been living together so long…”_

_“You’re very good at co-existing in close quarters together.”_

_“Yeah. It’s nice sometimes though. Having other people around. Not all the time but, you know, sometimes. You okay?”_

_“Yes. I was thinking perhaps-”_

_“Hey, you wanna watch something? I need something to help me fall asleep.”_

_“You want me to watch something? With you?”_

_“You see anyone else around?”_

_“I would like that very much.”_

 

 

The bunker has never felt so large, so empty as it has these past months with just the two of them knocking about in it. After Sam…

Not that he’d lived in the bunker full time for a long time. But he had been there often enough, researching, helping them keep on top of the phones. He had also made himself responsible for keeping the larder well stocked each month, knowing full well that Dean refused to move out despite the fact that he was finding it increasingly difficult to get around the bunker as he got older. He’d never said, but it was patently obvious that the only reason Sam had been happy to not live there full time was because he knew Castiel was there too.

Both of them were in the bunker, when it happened. When Sam…

In the end, it had been nothing more than a stupid accident. He was out of practice, physically at least, but there was nothing wrong with his brain and from time to time he did the occasional on-site consultation. A routine salt and burn with a hunter named Pauletta had turned dire very suddenly. They’d been miles away from the nearest hospital and she really did try…But. They gave him a proper hunter’s funeral of course. Not that there were many people to invite along. Most of their friends are dead.

That hasn’t changed.

Pauletta has gladly taken on Sam’s role, making sure they have whatever supplies they need each month. But it’s too painful for Dean, having her around for long periods of time. She seems to understand well enough. She’s known the Winchesters and Castiel for long enough now to understand that while she isn’t exactly blamed for Sam’s death, Dean isn’t great at forgiving and forgetting when it comes to his little brother. It’s not…penance exactly that she’s carrying out, but she _has_ gotten surprisingly good at buying Dean’s favorite flavors of pie.

Dean, in his old age, has gotten very good at sleeping.

After the most recent visit from Pauletta, Castiel wakes him up with soup and freshly toasted bread. He only eats half the bowl, but scarfs down the toast and then asks hopefully for pie. It’s encouraging, but Castiel is well aware that Dean is slipping further away every day, and there’s very little that he can do about it. He’s been trying anyway, with creature comforts. Food keeps Dean happy, company keeps him from being lonely, and fresh sheets on his memory foam mattress are comfortable for his aged bones.

He’s asleep again well before Castiel makes it back to his room with the pie. He scrapes the cream off the top, fridges the pie and re-heats it when Dean wakes. They watch a film together on one of the tablets in the war room – to be near the phones – and they laugh and nearly break their teeth on un-popped corn kernels. One movie becomes two, then four, and in spite of his laughter Dean seems to be getting antsier by the minute.

“Dean?” Castiel presses gently.

Tired eyes turn to him, and Dean manages a small smile.

“M’okay.”

But his eyelids droop lower and lower, and when he finally turns in and potters off to his room, Castiel stays up and waits. The anticipation seems to manifest like nausea, something deep and twisting in the gut. It doesn’t lessen once it begins either – only grows the longer he listens and keeps time.

On days when the grief is particularly bad, Dean cries in his sleep. Long heaving sobs that leave him as exhausted as if he’d not slept at all. Often it subsides as he drifts deeper into his subconscious, but on occasion its lasted for hours. Usually Castiel tries to leave him for as long as he can. The few times he’s woken Dean accidentally has ended badly for both of them.

Today, he can’t bear it.

Of all the various, sundry noises that he has endured in his long life, the sound of Dean Winchester weeping for his dead brother is the one that distresses Castiel beyond all others.

Within ten minutes he is stealing into Dean’s room and running fingertips across his aged brow, his heaving back. The touch must be light but firm, exact. Cas is becoming well practiced, and relief comes to both of them as the sobs quiet. Dean’s face slowly un-scrunches and his fists unclench from his bedsheets.

Castiel waits until Dean is completely calm and settled before he dares leave the room. In the doorway he pauses, looking back at the crumpled, miserable mess of limbs.

In his long life Dean has loved few people the way he did his little brother. Castiel suspects that Dean always presumed he would die first. Knowing full well that Sam would be devastated by the loss, but knowing from past experience that he would carry on regardless. Castiel also suspects that it might have been kinder to Dean if he had been the first of them to die. It’s cruel, the way Dean misses Sam. The way he mourns him so bitterly in his dreams but lacks the courage to acknowledge his pain properly when he’s awake.

Crueler still, is that Castiel cannot fill the void that has been left behind.

 

 

_“You’re okay with her staying?”_

_“Why wouldn’t I be?”_

_“You uh…you just seemed a bit…I dunno...”_

_“If you’ll pardon me for saying so Sam, your ability to construct sentences seems to be suffering.”_

_“You’re not upset?”_

_“Why would I be upset?”_

_“It’s just…Dean and…Liz…”_

_“Why would I care who he is sharing his bed with? She’s a hunter, and a capable one. It makes sense that they would be attracted to one another.”_

_“Look, Cas…”_

_“I don’t wish to speak about this.”_

_“Cas...”_

_“Sam.”_

_“Okay. Okay fine. I just…I care about both of you. Okay? And you’ve definitely been weird about it –”_

_“I haven’t been –”_

_“– whether you realize it or not. And Dean’s probably too buzzed to realize he’s being an ass. Whatever you guys have between you…”_

_“Sam, I appreciate the concern but I am fine. Dean is welcome to…whatever nocturnal activities he chooses to partake in with whomever he chooses. And if he wants her to stay here then it’s none of my business.”_

_“Okay. But look, if you ever want to talk or anything…”_

_“Thank you. Truly. But it isn’t necessary.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean take Baby for a drive. There are waffles, talk of cooking bacon in motel rooms with an iron. But mostly, there are memories.

Dean isn’t young anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. For a hunter, he’s downright ancient. His arthritis is dreadful, especially in his hands and in his hips. He has massive trouble with stairs, and his fingers are so gnarled that he can barely hold a beer bottle let alone a lock pick. His back isn’t much better, all of his years of being thrown about by monsters having caught up with him. And as for his hearing…well that’s completely shot to hell for obvious reasons. That’s why he chooses phones with the loudest volume settings available. That way he can man the phones, be useful. Maybe even be what Bobby was to him and Sam back in the day – or more.

When he asks for Castiel’s help to climb the spiral staircase and announces that he wants to go for a drive, Cas is understandably dubious. But when the keys to the Impala are pressed into his hand realization slowly dawns.

“I know you’ll take good care of my baby,” Dean says with a terrifyingly lecherous wink. Castiel still isn’t convinced, and Dean’s expression falters a little. “C’mon man. I need to feel the wind in what’s left of my hair – get some vitamin D, y’know?”

Castiel almost hesitates to ask, “The phones?”

“Re-routed all the calls to this,” Dean pats his breast pocket. “Anybody needs me – I’ll know.”

His smile isn’t entirely genuine, there’s something a bit broken down to it, but Castiel agrees to take him out anyway. It takes them almost ten minutes to tackle the stairs and when they make it outside it’s disappointingly overcast. Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He squints up at the heavy sky, rapturous, like it’s his first time seeing it. Castiel drives with no fixed destination and Dean rolls down the window and enjoys the sensation of rushing wind against his cheeks.

The Impala is on her last legs these days, rebuilt so many times that Castiel isn’t sure even Dean knows which parts of her are the genuine article anymore. He refused point black to upgrade her engine, so now she’s become a relic from the days of petrol engines. Technically it’s illegal to drive her without the proper permits but Dean is adept at procuring black market gas and she never gets driven far these days.

The petrol indicator is tipping dangerously low by the time they arrive home.

Deans requests a six pack of beer, and then for help to haul himself up onto the bonnet. It takes a few tries, and a terrifying improvised step made out of cinder blocks, but they manage. Castiel insists on folding blankets into makeshift cushions and Dean scoffs and calls him out on his mother-henning. But as the sun goes down and the temperature drops, he gratefully accepts a second blanket to drape across his aching knees.

The stars expand into being, slowly stretching out above them and they make it through almost the whole six pack without a word being spoken between them.

“You ever wonder…” Dean gestures vaguely with his bottle. He’s barely even tipsy but Castiel watches him intently, just in case he decides to roll off the edge of the car and break his hip. Dean chuckles, seemingly to himself, and then abruptly changes his question. “I dunno man. It’s like…how’d we even get here?”

Castiel’s mouth quirks against his will. “I drove us.”

Dean gives a hoot of delighted laughter and offers the neck of his bottle. They clink and sip companionably for a while. Above them the galaxy spreads its fingertips, wide and beautiful and infinite.

“Never thought we’d end up here.” Dean says suddenly, quiet in the dark. Castiel turns his head and they lock eyes in the near-darkness. He can see the shine of Dean’s eyes through the dark, heavy with age and drink and warmth.

Castiel looks away first. Dean finishes his beer and hunkers down under his blanket. It’s a testament to his napping skills that he slips easily into a doze despite the chilly night air and the hardness of the Impala’s hood. Before long he starts shivering and his body automatically gravitates to the only other source of warmth. Castiel doesn’t protest when Dean huddles into his side, or dozily presses his nose into his coat.

Eventually he begins mumbling in his sleep, asking for Sam. Soon after he wakes halfway and blearily asks if the phones are under control.

“The phones are fine,” Castiel assures him, and finally allows himself to touch. His fingers press gently at the nape of Dean’s neck. Easing him back down to his shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

Dean does. And when the cold finally becomes too much to bear, Castiel drags him off the hood and helps him back down the stairs. The journey to his room exhausts both of them. Stiff from the cold, Dean falls asleep on top of the covers, still wrapped in the blankets from the car. Castiel hesitates before joining him. It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed, always for practical purposes of course, but Cas finds himself drinking in the minutiae of it now. Dean’s soft huffs of breath, the tremors and twitches he makes in his sleep. The strange and intimate comfort of sharing space.

Their hands rest within inches of each other but do not touch.

_“JESUS. Cas you can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”_

_“My apologies.”_

_“You’re lucky I didn’t burn my damn hand. Here. Make yourself useful and mix up some more batter. We’ve got a full house today.”_

_“I’m not sure I will ever understand the appeal of cooking.”_

_“That’s because most of your cooking experience has been reheating crappy Gas N Sip burritos in a microwave and hoping they don’t catch fire.”_

_“How did you learn?”_

_“To cook? I dunno. Practice? A lifetime of needing to eat and getting sick of reheating crappy diner food?”_

_“No, I mean…I can’t imagine learning to cook was easy for you. The kitchen facilities in motels are usually mediocre at best.”_

_“Kidding? All I need is a bathroom sink and a microwave. Hell, even an iron. Man I could blow your mind with the crap I can make without any proper kitchen appliances. I should write a motel room cookbook.”_

_“What did you cook with an iron?”_

_“Crap tons of bacon mainly. I should teach you.”_

_“Would you?”_

_“Yeah man. Why not?”_

_“It seems counterproductive when we spend very little time in motels anymore.”_

_“Life skills Cas, life skills.”_

_“I fail to see how cooking bacon with an iron...”_

_“Dude, you just haven’t lived enough yet.”_

 

 

“I miss him,” Dean admits gruffly over waffles. He’s picking disconsolately over his plate despite the fact that Cas went on a secret supply run to buy his favorite brand of syrup. “I mean, I knew I would but…”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Castiel interjects quietly. “I miss him too.”

Dean considers, then reaches out and covers Castiel’s hand with his own. His fingers are knotted and bent, crippled by the arthritis. He can’t clean his guns or drive his beloved car anymore. He squeezes and his tendons strain in protest.

“Thanks man,” he says and he always seems so damn _tired_ nowadays. Sounds tired, feels tired, looks tired. It’s exhausting to watch. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Castiel turns his hand over, places the other over Dean’s and squeezes it briefly. “Of course.” He says simply and Dean manages a weak smile.

“Thanks for the waffles,” he says and stands to scrape his leftovers into the garbage. “Hey, good job on finding the syrup. I didn’t think we had any left. Are you okay to watch the phones for a bit if I go for a lie down? My hips are freaking killing me…”

Dean leaves. Castiel stands and stares down into the bin and a peculiar, queasy feeling turns within him.

The waffles have barely been touched.

 

_“Dean.”_

_“Hang on.”_

_“…Dean?”_

_“Do me a favor Cas, hand me that…thing…yeah the red thing.”_

_“This?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“What is its purpose?”_

_“She’s teething. Kid needs something to chew on or she’ll get cranky. Won’t ya Miss Mara?”_

_“Blarble.”_

_“Is Rachel out?”_

_“Yeah. Asked me to watch the kid for a few hours. Not like I had anything better to do. Huh? Guess I’ll just finish my Netflix binge later.”_

_“Phbbbbbbt.”_

_“Yeah I completely agree kid. What?”_

_“You’re very good with her.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“With Mara. You’re very good with her.”_

_“She’s a good kid.”_

_“You would make a good father.”_

_“Huh. Yeah. Well. Whatever. Pretty sure any kids I raised would’ve turned out to be head cases. Or reckless little turds. Or I’d’ve gotten them killed somehow.”_

_“I doubt it.”_

_“Well. Guess we’ll never know huh?”_

_“Dean…”_

_“It’s fine Cas. Just leave it.”_

_“So. I caught the bouquet.”_

_“I saw.”_

_“I think I pissed off a few of the chicks who were angling for it.”_

_“Why would they be…pissed off?”_

_“It’s a custom, or whatever. Whoever catches the bouquet is meant to be the next person to get married. Or engaged. I forget exactly how it goes. Weddings aren’t really my scene. Hell, not like I’m ever gonna get married. Whatever. Anyway. You want a beer or something?”_

_“Is that also customary?”_

_“Probably. Here. Look after the flowers.”_

_“Red carnations. Did you know they symbolize deep romantic love?”_

_“Oh my god. You’re worse than Sam. What, are you a plant nerd now as well as everything else?”_

_“Pink carnations are actually strongly linked to the Virgin Mary. In the Bible, when Jesus bore the cross, it was said that she wept and pink carnations sprang up where her tears fell.”_

_“Huh.”_

_“We should plant flowers at the bunker.”_

_“Sure thing Stanley. I’ll leave you and the flowers to canoodle. I’ll be back.”_

_“Dean?”_

_“Hey.”_

_“Are you…alright? You left very abruptly.”_

_“Yeah. I just…you and Sam went behind my back with all of those other assholes to organize a surprise birthday party for me?”_

_“Are you…angry?”_

_“No I’m not angry. It’s just…I don’t – dammit Cas, I’m just crap at this kind of stuff.”_

_“No you’re not.”_

_“Yeah man, I really, really am. Christ. Just look at me! I’m in here, hiding like some kind of…of wuss who can’t even cope with people sticking a candle in a piece of crappy store bought pie…”_

_“I assure you the pie is anything but crappy. It came from a specialist patisserie. It’s Pecan.”_

_“Jesus Christ...”_

_“Dean, you deserve nice things. Especially on your birthday.”_

_“Look, Cas, buddy. I haven’t exactly had a lot of great birthdays. Usually I’m dying, or the world is ending or…man the amount of times I’ve just completely forgotten about it...”_

_“You’re not dying.”_

_“I know.”_

_“The world isn’t ending.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You should come and eat pie. With the others.”_

_“Okay. Okay. Okay yeah I can…yeah. Thanks. Cas.”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two! Please feel free to leave comments, I'd absolutely love to hear from anybody who might be reading this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is starting to really go downhill in this part. There are non explicit scenes of him using a bedpan and having a sponge bath. So if either of those things are going to squick or trigger y'all in some way, consider this your warning.

It’s difficult to keep time in the bunker – what with the lack of windows. Castiel doesn’t keep track of the amount of hours that Dean sleeps anymore, only knows that they are increasing. They swig their way through an entire carafe of coffee, sit in the war room and listen to a Pink Floyd record and man the phones. Dean falls asleep in his chair and Castiel tugs him back to his room, half conscious.

“nks’man,” Dean manages as Castiel pulls the blankets up and tucks in the corners. A smile ghosts over his lips when Castiel carefully brushes his hair back. He doesn’t style it anymore – his youthful vanity long having been stripped away. Castiel also suspects that there isn’t enough of it left to properly style it even if he chose to.

“Sleep,” Castiel suggests. “I’ll man the phones.”

Dean does.

Castiel does.

Nobody calls.

 

 

_“Dean.”_

_“Get bent Cas. Seriously.”_

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“Dean…”_

_“You know what? Screw you Cas! You don’t know a damn thing-!”_

_“-I know exactly what-”_

_“-oh really?”_

_“-I know **you** Dean.”_

_“Do you? D’you know what it’s like to realize that you’ve become a friggin’ geriatric? Worse, that you can’t do the only thing you’ve ever been good at? That your screw up got somebody killed? That the only redeeming thing about your crappy existence on this crappy ass planet is useless? That you’re worthless? That…”_

_“Dean.”_

_“What?”_

_“You’re crying.”_

_“Dammit. I-Cas… Noah’s dead because of me. Mara doesn’t have a dad. Rachel doesn’t have…Jesus Cas, do you get this? This is **my fault**. As if my own family wasn’t messed up enough I had to go screw around with somebody else’s…we never should’ve started this goddamn summer camp B &B bull. Everyone who’s come through has wound up dead or worse.”_

_“You can’t save everyone Dean.”_

_“I can’t save anyone. I’m done man.”_

_“Dean…”_

_“I said I’m done!”_

 

 

It’s been a bad day. After enduring almost an hour of Dean sobbing in his sleep, Castiel had gone to soothe him. At his touch however, Dean had bolted awake and gone straight for the blade under his pillow. The ensuing tussle had exhausted him, and resulted in pillows being thrown and some indelibly harsh words. It’s an old, defensive behavior that Dean still falls into occasionally when he’s feeling crappy, but the sting of it is still like a slap to the face. Castiel leaves him alone, at least for a time. But soon enough he finds himself returning to Dean’s room – just to check that he is indeed sleeping restfully this time.

He is still sitting there, many hours later, counting Deans breaths as he sleeps. Castiel watches the twitches of atrophied muscles in sleep with a kind of morbid fascination. It’s comforting, in an odd way. Logical and detached. Dean is sleeping more and more each day. And he’s dreaming – of Sam and of days long past. He calls out for his mother now too, his father. Sometimes even for Castiel.

He provides whatever Dean asks for. Reads to him, fetches a tablet so they can watch films together, cooks his favorite meals and even brings him the occasional finger of whiskey when he requests it.

“Empty,” Dean says, loudly and very suddenly into the room. Castiel startles. He reaches out and strokes across Dean’s brow with careful fingers. “Empty,” Dean says again, and scowls in his sleep. He shifts away from Castiel’s touch. Whispers, “Empty.” Castiel sits, at a loss.

Neither of them know it, but today is the last day that Dean will wake with enough energy in him to pick a fight with anyone.

 

 

_“Hey man. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah. Look man, you know I don’t hunt anymo…what? Yeahhhhhh…like a consult? You want me to…? Uh…well…I guess? Yeah. Yeah. Hang on let me just…you know what, send me some deets and I guess I’ll see what I can dig up for you. Right. Thanks man.”_

_“Who was it?”_

_“Andy. He uh…wants me to consult on a case.”_

_“Are you going to?”_

_“Well yeah, I guess. What’s with the smug face?”_

_“This is what my face always looks like.”_

_“Yeah. Right.”_

 

 

As Dean’s appetite decreases, he loses his mobility terrifyingly quickly. Despite this, he refuses to shift rooms, not even to be closer to the amenities. When he becomes too weak to even manage the short walk to the bathroom by himself, Castiel grimly takes matters into his own hands. Dean isn’t impressed with the idea of a bedpan at first and is adorably shy about using it, but the ease of it slowly begins to win him over.

He acclimatizes to the sponge baths much quicker – but then slipping over in the shower and almost braining yourself will do that. After the first time he fell he grudgingly consented to a special walking frame, complete with a little seat and rubberized feet. But when he continues to fall in spite of the frame, Castiel puts his foot down and they come to a rapid compromise.

“Shame you don’t have a naughty nurse outfit,” Dean brays with laughter at his own hilarity while Castiel takes his time, solemnly dedicated to his task. “Maybe one of those old fashioned dresses? With some white thigh highs and the little hat? You’d look _adorable_.”

“You are a terrible old man,” Castiel admonishes him and mockingly jabs at his shoulder with the sponge. “Thank heavens you aren’t in a nursing home. You’d get done for sexual harassment.”

Dean grins, but a moment later it falls off his face. He closes his eyes and leans back into Castiel’s touch. Cas stills. He’s been paying particular attention to Dean’s back – pockmarked with scars as it is – and he anxiously checks to make sure that Dean hasn’t fallen asleep sitting up again or suffered a stroke.

“Dean?”

“S’nice,” Dean mumbles and Castiel is certain he sees his ears pinking up a little bit. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Castiel responds and washes as much of Dean as his pride will allow him.

 

 

_“The garden looks amazing.”_

_“Yeah, Cas has been having fun with it.”_

_“You know, it’s funny. I remember digging out the beds with everybody – Tom and Pauletta, Garth’s kids when they were staying…”_

_“Yeah. We don’t get so many anymore. A few strays here and there. Honestly? We get a lot more cases over the phone now. Or people come past to add something to the database and stay for the waffles.”_

_“You know I wasn’t kidding when I said you and Cas should sell the honey down at the local farmer’s market. This stuffs incredible.”_

_“Yeah I can just see it now. Cas and me. Ruffled aprons and hair nets. Awesome. C’mon Sam, I’m getting old, I’m not some kind of Suzie-homemaker. We’ve got enough time to grow crap, it’s a helluva lot cheaper than buying groceries all the damn time. And the way Cas goes through honey…”_

_“…You figured it’d just be cheaper to get beehives?”_

_“He likes ‘em. I get honey. What’s not to like?”_

_“Man when did you guys get so domestic? It’s kind of gross.”_

_“You’re one to talk Mr. White-Picket-Fence.”_

_“Says the guy who looks like that freaky librarian from Omaha…”_

_“Hey, give it a few years and I bet your eyes crap out too Sasquatch...”_

_“Have you two filled your quota of brotherly squabbling yet?”_

_“Sorry Cas, old habits. Oh. Oh you were joking.”_

_“I’m glad you like the honey. I’ll make sure I get a few jars for you to take home.”_

_“Thanks Cas.”_

 

 

Pauletta worries about them. She tries to insist on coming more regularly and Castiel denies her every time.

“It’s under control,” he promises. “If I need you, I’ll give you a call.”

“What if something happens to you?” Pauletta demands. “Who’ll look after him then?”

Castiel shakes his head but tries to reassure her anyway. “That’s not going to happen-” he begins but Pauletta speaks over him, concern pitching her voice higher and higher.

“Look Cas, I know you don’t want to hear it but the guys not long for this world – you just have to look at him. Hell, I remember when my grandad got like this, after my gram died. He didn’t last six months! I know Dean’s tough but he’s _old_ , and I just don’t want you to be alone when he…you know.”

“I will call you,” Castiel repeats through gritted teeth. “If I need you.”

Pauletta looks at him considering, and she looks sad.

“Okay man,” she surrenders. “I get it.”

She leaves reluctantly, the bunker door clanging shut behind her, and Castiel slumps into a chair and rubs a hand over his exhausted eyes. Pauletta reminds him too much of Dean – of how he used to be. Her idiomatic phrasing, the youthful cheekiness and the stubbornness.

But there are groceries to pack away, and Dean will want a shave today – scrupulous even now about not growing a beard.

Castel rises from his seat and wearily begins his day.

 

 

_“Hey Cas.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“You ever wonder…if maybe you lived your life completely ass backwards?”_

_“That depends.”_

_“On what.”_

_“Is this a hypothetical question?”_

_“No, I’m serious man. If you could go back, change things, do things over…”_

_“I wouldn’t change anything.”_

_“Really?”_

_“A wise man once told me, never regret anything you’ve. Because at one point it was what you wanted. Or at least, what you thought you wanted.”_

_“Sounds like a pretentious asshole.”_

_“Sometimes, yes.”_

 

 

Dean slowly becomes mostly non-verbal. Except for when he dreams. Their relationship quietly becomes one of silent gestures and conversations where nobody says a damn word.

It’s nice at times – almost peaceful.

At the slightest gesture, Castiel retrieves the bedpan. Dean doesn’t even sit up to relieve himself anymore, merely turns o.nto his side as best he can, sighing with relief once he’s had a good piss.

Once he’s dealt with that, Castiel hovers at the end of the bed.

“Hungry?”

Dean shakes his head minutely.

“Thirsty?”

Shrug.

“You want some Jello?”

A smile touches the corners of his lips and Castiel tries to smile back.

Mostly he just feels like weeping.

 

 

_“Pretty quiet around here.”_

_“Yes. It is. Why are you laughing?”_

_“S’funny.”_

_“What is?”_

_“I never thought I’d miss all the noise.”_

_“I’m still here.”_

_“Yeah man, but you don’t exactly make a lot of noise. Sometimes I don’t even realize when you’ve gone out.”_

_“That’s because you don’t notice me.”_

_“Asshole.”_

_“Or you fall asleep and then wake up and forget I’ve gone.”_

_“Shut up. I’m old. I think I’m entitled to a few goddamn naps.”_

_“I’m inclined to agree.”_

_“Hey Cas?”_

_“Yes Dean?”_

_“You’re going to hang around right? I’m not gonna wake up from a nap and find a note telling me you’ve torn off to Albuquerque to become a stripper or something.”_

_“Why would I go to Albuquerque?”_

_“That’s the bit you have a problem with?”_

_“Well I’m not sure I would make a very successful stripper.”_

_“Look, I just…you aren’t leaving anytime soon? Right?”_

_“Of course not.”_

_“Okay. Okay. Just checking. What, can you blame a guy?”_

 

 

Dean’s appetite continues to decline.

He allows Castiel to give him full sponge baths and doesn’t seem to give two shits about his modesty.

He doesn’t leave the bed anymore. Hasn’t for weeks. But he still occasionally gestures, murmurs, _phone?_

Castiel always nods, sometimes pats his hand.

“The phones are fine Dean. I promise.”

Dean always manages a very small smile at that. Content. Maybe even a nod.

Truthfully, the phones haven’t rung in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more parts to go! Thanks to those who have commented and given kudos :) and please feel free to leave them, I love receiving them!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are pots of coffee, funeral pyres, fading memories, and a couple of surprise appearances.

_“So! What have we got on monster radio today? Any news from Sam?”_

_“Everything seems to be in order.”_

_“Cool. Oh…man…this coffee is amazing. Is this a new brew?”_

_“I cleaned the pot.”_

_“Jesus. It’s like heaven in a handbasket. Reckon we’ll get any drop ins?”_

_“Nobody has contacted us.”_

_“Awesome. Just you and me then I guess. I’m gonna go hang out in the garden while I drink this. Chill with the bees.”_

_“Do you want me to come and get you if a case comes…?”_

_“Got my phone. Everything’s routed through so maybe if you just take a look at the news and make sure everything’s being covered by one of our guys? Golden.”_

_“Dean…”_

_“Yeah Cas?”_

_“Nothing. I’m glad you like the coffee.”_

_“Sure. Thanks man.”_

 

Each day starts like all the others. Simple foods bolstered with calorie supplements. Thickened water, pilfered from a hospital by the ever resourceful Pauletta. Dean is having trouble swallowing, and keeps choking on food and drink. He is properly wasting away now, but Castiel still dutifully nurses him. He’s exhausted by the repetition, dulled by it. He has also stopped concerning himself with propriety. Dean receives full sponge baths now, and is completely dependent on the bedpan. Castiel makes sure to roll Dean while he’s sleeping so he doesn’t get bed sores – in spite of the memory foam.

To help feed him, often he sits up against the headboard and props Dean between his legs, leaning him back against his shoulder as he feeds him spoon by spoon. Once breakfast is cleared away Castiel returns to the same position and massages his arms and fingers to stimulate blood flow. Dean hums with pleasure at his touch. He lists in Castiel’s arms, sighing.

“What do you want to do today?” Cas murmurs into his ear. He rocks a little, unconsciously, as he works the stiff joints of Dean’s left hand. “Board games?”

A bubble of laughter shakes Dean’s chest but doesn’t leave his throat.

“No board games? Okay. Shall we watch something?”

An affirmative hum.

“TV show?” Castiel asks, already reaching for the tablet on the nightstand. “Or film?”

Another affirmative hum.

Dean falls asleep within minutes of selecting one. Castiel tunes out completely until the credits roll and then shifts uncomfortably. Dean may be scrawny, but the continued pressure of his weight still becomes difficult eventually.

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs, slipping off the bed and helping Dean back down onto his pillows. “You rest.”

Half asleep, Dean brings his hand up, with some effort, and gestures. _Phone?_

Castiel leans down so Dean can see through his sleep heavy lids, then pats his coat pocket.

“You don’t have to worry about the phones,” he assures him, and squeezes a hand on his thin shoulder. “I’ve got them.”

Dean’s eyelids flicker with amusement.

“Yes I promise I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel offers dryly. “Just to make some coffee.”

Dean is asleep again before he’s even left the room, his soft breaths filling the room.

_They built the funeral pyre for Sam together and as they watched it burn Dean wept freely for the brother he had mourned too many times already. It was the only time he would allow himself to grieve openly. Castiel stood sentinel beside him, hands clenched into fists inside his coat pockets and waited._

_They stood there for hours, until the pyre had burned itself completely into ash. Only then did Dean finally turn away from it, not bothering to wipe the damp from his cheeks._

_“Are you going to stay?” he demanded, his eyes still watery and his lower lip trembling. There was history here, pain and guilt that had never been properly reconciled. And for all the many times that Dean had asked over the long years they had shared together, he still disbelieved that the answer could be yes._

_Would always be yes._

_Castiel’s lips rebelled against the reassuring smile he wanted to offer. He was too full to the brim with sorrow, and with loss, as Dean was. But some of what he was feeling must have shown in his expression because Dean relaxed, nodding._

_“Thank you.”_

_“Of course Dean.”_

_There was nothing more to say._

 

 

Castiel makes sure to check all of the news sites on the tablets while he’s brewing up a pot of coffee. He does both more out of habit than anything, and to give him a small moment to just breathe. Neither of them will drink the coffee, but the smell and the routine is comforting – for both of them. Much the same as checking the phones and tablets has become an unnecessary but reflexive habit.

It’s maybe a half an hour before Castiel makes it back to Dean’s room, perhaps a little less. At first he doesn’t notice the slight shift in the air, the stillness. By the time he does, he’s already reaching to rouse Dean, to roll him so that he can massage the sensation back into his feet and legs, but the moment he touches Dean’s paper-thin skin, he freezesket pocket.

with pleasure, lists in his arms, sighing.r already, s in place.

This isn’t new for Castiel. He’s seen death in many myriad forms. But never like this. Never…

He sits, dumb, on the edge of the bed. A scrawny, withered old man lies comfortably entombed in his blankets.

Castiel sits there, for a very long time with him.

Dean looks nothing but peaceful. for a very long time.crawny, withered old man lies comfortably entombed in his blankets.xes before he  is on

_“Okay, so. I’ve been thinking about this for ages and…it makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re not going to be around forever, and a lot of hunters could really benefit from the info we’ve got stashed away in here. I’ve been working on digitalizing it but honestly? It’s gonna take me forever unless I get some more help. We get other hunters calling us asking for advice all the time...why not tell them to come and stay? You know, like a hunter research library.”_

_“So what, you wanna do like, research internships for hunters? Summer camps? DIY bullet making in the mornings, Latin 101 in the afternoons and orienteering in Wendigo infested woods at night? No. No. This is a bad idea Sam. A capital ‘b’ Bad idea.”_

_“Dean…”_

_“Somebody is going to mess this up – probably us. Man, we can’t even handle ourselves half the time, let alone a bunch of other people who we don’t even know. I mean we don’t even know half of the crap we have in here. What if some idiot gets ahold of a spell book and blows the whole place sky high? Or, I don’t know, opens a hell portal in a toilet or something?”_

_“That seems unlikely Dean.”_

_“Oh whatever Cas.”_

_“And I think Sam has a good point.”_

_“Oh. Wow. Thanks so much for your ongoing support.”_

_“But you are also correct Dean. You shouldn’t trust just anybody. This isn’t just your home. This is one of the greatest treasure troves of supernatural knowledge and artefacts in existence. The use of these resources will need to be monitored closely. But I believe that the risks far outweigh the benefits. Perhaps by sharing your knowledge with other hunters more innocent lives can be saved. It seems worth it.”_

_“Great. Fine. So what now – do we put an ad in the freaking paper? Wanted: roommates for secluded nuclear fallout bunker. Great water pressure, no windows, and all hours access to the dungeon! Research nerds and hunters of the supernatural preferred. Successful applicants must submit themselves to all the usual tests; silver, holy water, salt…”_

_“Wait…you’re actually agreeing to this?”_

_“Well I ain’t exactly super happy about it Sammy but sure. If you think it’ll help pay for our rent, let’s get some damn roomies.”_

 

 

There aren’t many photographs on display, but the bunker has had its share of strays and waifs who have left their mark on it over the years. Perhaps the most obvious is in the gardens. There was a time when the bunker had been full of people; hunters, legacies, even the occasional misunderstood monster or supernatural beastie. It was with their help that the greenhouse had been built, to house rare herbs and plants for spell making. Garden beds had been dug, the earth tilled by the kind of people who were more often found unearthing coffins in the dead of night than watering flowers.

Castiel remembers. He remembers the tending of seedlings and the delight that had come with their very first harvest. Dean had been the one to rig up a drip system to keep the garden watered when they were off on long hunts and there was nobody to mind the bunker. He had also grudgingly looked up recipes for silver beet and spinach for his brother, on the proviso that they also plant an apple tree for the sole purpose of pie and crumble making.

It’s to that tree that Cas goes now. The greenhouse has fallen into disrepair, and the garden is overgrown. He has been neglecting it these last few months in favor of trying to keep the bunker clean and in order. A few stray seedlings are clinging pathetically to life, some of them are badly choked by weeds. It’s quiet. The bee hives they set up so long ago are empty. The bees have long since moved on, much like everyone else. Carefully, Castiel lowers himself to the ground at the base of the apple tree so he can run familiar fingertips over the badly lacerated trunk.

He never truly understood the human urge to mark the tree, to claim ownership of it by cutting into its skin. Now he thinks he might be starting. She is gnarled with age, and some of the oldest carvings are beginning to fade into obscurity. He finds his own name easily, quietly nestled beneath the initials of Sam and Dean. Their names are the epicenter for all of the others that have taken up residence. There are other small glyphs carved as well as names. Hearts. A few crude words. Castiel touches his own name, awkwardly cut into the widest part of the trunk.

“Hello Castiel.”

The beautiful woman who has appeared as if out of thin air is warm and golden, a profusion of freckles and eyes that must be green. Castiel instinctively turns his face from her. It’s stupid and he knows better than to turn away from what is likely to be an enemy but he just can’t stand to look at her. Not when she looks like this. His forehead bumps against the tree and he lets out a dry sob, roots and dirt scraping at his fingertips. He’s only just beginning to understand how Dean had felt when Sam had died. The hollow, emptiness that isn’t quite painful but somehow hurts even more. And for her to just turn up and impinge on his grief like this…

If he had any energy left, any space to feel any emotion but pain, Castiel might have been afraid.

“Let me guess. You’re a reaper.” He finally says, voice flat. He takes a shuddering breath and finally turns back to look at her. She is still as golden and bright and beautiful as she was a moment ago but her eyes are impossibly old. As she comes closer it becomes clear that he predicted the color correctly.

She doesn’t even bother trying to deny what she is, merely tilts her head and offers him a small smile. “I prefer Sara.”

Castiel sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes. “You took Dean.”

“I did.”

Castiel breathes out. Breathes in. Barks out a half-crazed laugh.

“Well I don’t know why you decided to stay for me!” he admits. He’s so tired he can hardly open his eyes again. His vision is bleary. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sara raises her eyebrows slightly. “Aren’t you?”

Castiel stares up at her and his brow furrows. He isn’t sure whether to laugh, or to keep on crying.

“Is that a threat?” he asks. The reaper considers him a moment before stepping forward and squatting down, as if to observe him closer. Castiel shifts uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a fight with anyone. He’s not sure he’ll be much good if it comes down to defending himself.

“What are you, Castiel?”

The question startles him so much that he actually stops crying.

“What?”

“Well…you’re not really an angel anymore.” Sara tilts her head again, just slightly, as she studies him. At the salt and pepper threatening his temples, at the skin which is softening with age. Her hand moves as if she wants to brush a hand along his exposed forearm. The hairs prickle with the phantom touch and Castiel shivers. “But you’re not exactly human either. Do you have a soul?”

He considers the answer, pressing his fingertips into the earth beneath him. “I-I don’t know.” He confesses finally.

“Where do you think you’re going once you die?”

“I don’t know that either.”

A toothy smile spreads across the reapers face.

“I do.”

 

 

“Castiel? What’s wrong?”

He sucks in a breath.

“Claire. I’m sorry it’s been so long…”

“Cut the bull.” she interjects. Her voice is rough. She sounds tired. Everyone he knows is so tired. “You haven’t been in touch for months. You’ve been ignoring my messages. What’s wrong?”

“I-” he swallows. Concocts a long and detailed explanation in his head and then open his mouth and instead blurts, “To be entirely honest I haven’t had the energy. Pauletta has been bringing groceries since Sam. And Dean…”

He stumbles over the familiar name a handful of times but can’t bring himself to go on. As it turns out he doesn’t have to.

“Jesus.” Claire’s voice is impossibly soft and Castiel sags a little in gratitude. He’s gotten good at reading between the lines over his many years on earth, but Claire is one of only a few people who can read him. “I’m sorry. I knew he was in a bad way. How’d he…?”

“Heartbreak?” Castiel suggests tiredly. “Old age. Some combination of the two.”

There is a long silence from the other end of the phone.

“I’m not going to see you again am I?”

“I wouldn’t think so.” Castiel manages. His voice is thick. “I’m not sure where I’m headed.”

“You’ll find him,” Claire says with finality. “The two of you…there’s no way that the universe wouldn’t let you be...after everything…”

“That remains to be seen.” Castiel breathes in, once more, slowly. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” Claire says. She is trying to sound dismissive but he can hear the edge of a sob in her voice. “Do I have to come and make a funeral pyre for your sorry ass?”

“Pauletta is on her way. She might appreciate some help. If you wanted to.”

“Not like I have anything better to do,” Claire grumbles and Castiel abruptly remembers her as a teenager.

The memory surprises him into a small smile.

“Goodbye Claire.”

She pauses before answering. Composing herself maybe. “So long Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more part to go now! Keep a weather eye out for it lovelies, it'll be up in the next day or two hopefully. Thank you for all the kudos, and please feel free to leave a comment if you're enjoying it :)


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel finds himself on a road, by night. There are no cars. The only light coming from the occasional streetlamp and from the stars up above. They seem brighter than usual and he maps constellations as he begins to follow it, aimlessly. There is no sense of time, he could have been walking for eternity or for only a few minutes when the car pulls up beside him.

He doesn’t hear it approach, but he isn’t at all surprised to see the Impala, shiny and new. The driver’s side window is rolled down and the Dean who smirks out at him, face looming pale in the quasi-darkness is at least a half century younger than the Dean he nursed as he faded from the world.

“Need a ride angel?”

Castiel turns, and keeps walking.

If this is heaven – and he certainly hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Sara took him elsewhere – then it’s more than possible that this is merely a vision, a dream of a memory cooked up by somebody to make him believe that he’s safe. Home. In any case, only soul mates can share a heaven. Castiel knows this.

“Cas!”

He hears Dean exit the car, leaving it idling. The familiar creak-slam of the door. Castiel sighs, stops, and turns to find Dean standing next to his car, hands spread helplessly.

“Buddy,” he says, surprisingly gentle. “It’s me.”

Castiel considers him for a long moment, not daring to trust, and Dean must understand the wariness on his face because he takes a slow, careful step forward. His freckled face is earnest. He offers a small smile.

“I get it. It took me a while to get used to being up here. They’ve done a few renovations apparently. Or at least, it’s not as crappy as all the other times I’ve been up here.”

Castiel waits, standing askance, and after a moment the smile falls from Deans face and he lowers his hands in defeat.

“Tell me what you need.” Dean says. Simple. “Tell me what you need me to say so you know this is real.”

Castiel’s eyes dart away, unable to look Dean in the eye when he answers.

“Tell me something,” he says, voice faltering. “Something only we could know.”

Their eyes meet again briefly, and Dean scratches his head for a moment, considering. When he speaks, it’s with an open face and careful movements.

“You stayed with me,” he begins, taking a tentative step forward. Castiel stiffens slightly but doesn’t back away. Dean falters when he notices, and then comes to an abrupt stop. His eyes are pleading. “Stayed with me right until the end.”

Castiel shakes his head. “If you’re a figment of my imagination then you would know that. I need more.”

Dean considers him again, thinking so hard that his mouth twitches over unspoken words.

“I stayed too.”

It takes a moment for Castiel’s brain to catch up and realize that Dean hasn’t made an error.

“You-”

“I stayed too,” Dean repeats, and takes another small step forward. Overhead a streetlight gives a brief flicker, making his face shiver, ghost-like in the dull light. “When Sara came to take me. I asked her if I could stay with you. Least until you stuck me up on the pyre. I figured I wouldn’t be able to stick around after that. Not much left tying me to the earth once my body was toast.

“So I watched you. Packing all my crap away, cleaning up the bunker. The phone calls to Pauletta and Claire. The death notice you stuck up on all the hunter networks online. But the thing that really got me was when you built my funeral pyre. You know I never saw you cry, all those years you stayed on earth with me? Not when we cremated Sammy, not when you hit that bird with your car and killed it, not all the times I yelled at you or told you I hated your ass or that I wanted you out of the bunker. Nothing. Maybe you got a bit misty eyed but I never saw you have a proper full on cry.”

Castiel feels momentarily winded, all the air knocked out of him. “Just because you never saw it doesn’t mean I never did.” He manages.

“I know. But I never, _ever_ saw you cry like you did when you buried me.” Dean looks a little uncomfortable but he refuses to look away. He takes a step closer. And another. And another and another until they are toe to toe. Castiel feels like he’s going to burst, like his chest is buried in concrete. Dean’s eyes are so green and his freckles are so stark and Sara had made herself look like that, made herself look like Dean to help try and tempt him into leaving with her because that’s what Reapers do. They make themselves into the thing most likely to entice you into the dark oblivion of whatever comes after.

This doesn’t look like the Empty. But Castiel isn’t looking to count chickens, or to find gift horses and he cannot – simply _cannot_ believe that after everything he has done that he would be allowed this. _This_. In life, Dean would probably have said that an eternity with him was a poor consolation prize, but Castiel can think of nothing that he wants more. A forever and beyond unto the ending of everything. With Dean, who could ask Castiel to stay but was never quite able to bring himself to ask for more than that. With Dean, who taught Castiel more about life and love in 8 years than he’d learned in the previous 8 trillion.

With Dean, who right now has a small, wry smile on his lips. “Look,” he says, and he almost looks embarrassed. “Cas. Everything I could say to try and convince you, you already know. We’ve pretty much shared everything for the last however many years. A lifetimes worth of memories.”

“A human lifetime.” Castiel agrees and Dean shrugs.

“Well, yeah. You’re the only person who ever knew me like that. Maybe Sam, but the dudes my brother. You’re…” he stops, shakes his head, laughs a little bit. “You were always something different. Not exactly more but…you saw through all my bull. You never let me stew in it.”

A long, slow silence stretches between them. Dean’s eyes are soft, and Castiel wants so badly to reach out to him.

“You wanna know how we wound up here?” Dean puts his hands in his jeans pockets and rocks back onto his heels. He’s full to bursting with pride, his eyes clear and open and so warm. He looks happy. “My damn genius of a little brother. He never got a chance to tell me, but before he died he sorted out some kind of…a soul insurance policy? To make sure we didn’t get chucked out into the Empty. And he figured, he didn’t know where you would end up so he made sure you were in on the deal too. That’s why Sara came for me. For you. For all of us.”

Castiel blinks. It makes sense in theory. However... “That doesn’t explain how I’m here in your heaven. If this even is heaven. Only soul mates can share. And I never had…I mean, I don’t believe I ever had a soul. Angel’s don’t…”

Dean waves a dismissive hand. “You haven’t really been a full angel for a long time.”

“I suppose I haven’t.”

“And hey, who says you aren’t my soul mate?”

Dean says it so glibly that Castiel almost walks away then and there. Because Dean would never…he _had_ never said…their connection had always been what it was and nothing more.

“Look,” Dean continues, still speaking incredibly candidly. Perhaps, Castiel muses briefly, old age and death may have given him a clearer perspective on things. “I’m sorry. I mean, I never had the balls to say anything about it when I was alive. But I figure, short of getting resurrected again – like, the second coming of Dean Winchester, or something stupid like that – I’m probably not going back to Earth again. And I’m okay with that. I figure, there’s enough people out there we managed to teach that the world won’t implode anytime soon. But…” he looks around, forehead crinkling as he takes in the road, the trees. On the endless horizon the sun is touching the edges of the world with the slightest stain of pink. “Wherever we are – whatever this place is? I don’t want to stay.” Castiel’s breath catches. He finds himself captivated by the silhouette of Dean’s profile for a moment before their eyes meet once again. “Not if it means I don’t get to stay with you.”

Dean punctuates the silence by reaching out a hand, palm up. It’s an offering, plain and simple, but Castiel doesn’t answer the unspoken question right away. Instead, he reaches out tentatively and gently rests the backs of his fingers in Dean’s cupped palm. His hand nestles there against Dean’s warm fingertips. The callouses are as familiar to Castiel as the threads of his grace once were. Dean smiles, a little crookedly, and as their hands slowly coil together Castiel finally feels and recognizes the nervous thrumming of Dean Winchester’s soul. He would know it anywhere. In Hell, in Heaven, in Purgatory, or any other realm.

And as he stands there, on a roadside in – you know what, who really cares where? – Castiel thinks about how he had prided himself during his recent time on Earth, on his skill in reading between the lines of what human beings – and specifically Dean Winchester – did and did not say out loud. This, however, feels like something major that he has rather spectacularly, and stupidly managed to miss.

“I…feel much the same way.” He admits. “Also, you should probably know that I now feel very stupid.”

Dean’s face cracks into a rare smile. “Join the club man. I reckon we’re both just a couple of dumbasses.”

It hurts more than Castiel thought it might – the memories a single word can conjure up. But it doesn’t take much before the memory makes him smile as well.

Dean says, “Are you gonna stay with me?” His eyes are bright and the sun is rising over the road and Castiel’s fingers are linked through Dean’s in a promise that they made long ago, even if they never quite got around to saying it out loud.

Castiel squeezes his fingers against Dean’s. Says, “Of course Dean.” And they continue on down the road together.

What other answer is there to give?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is something unfathomably sad about the idea of these two going through an entire lifetime together but never quite getting their shit together. Even sadder to think about Castiel, who at this point I'm pretty sure is going to end up staying on Earth with the boys (pending something massive happening to him that would alter his entire arc thus far) - just...staying with Dean. Being there for him however he can, even when Dean is dying of old age. Not having enough mojo to keep him alive, but not being human enough to properly die either. That's where this fic came from, and I hope I've done the concept justice, more or less.
> 
> I also hope that the happy ending (again, more or less) is appreciated. It's something that I hope for, for these boys. Whether TPTB give it to them is another question altogether, but we can dream eh?


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